Dragonraid
by Kalayzor
Summary: You fly swiftly, your dragon steady beneath you, your prey below you...a castle holding hostage a fellow Rider.


You are used to the rush of air brushing past your ears, your Dragon steed, a close friend since birth, flying swiftly through the cold, clean air. You have been promised reinforcements, fellow Riders to aid in your attack on the castle below, but they have yet to appear, and daylight is fading fast – you must attack before night falls, else your goal, a fellow Dragonrider, will likely be swinging from the hangman's noose.

You alone must begin the assault. A few taps and a couple of shouted words gain your Dragon's attention and agreement. He dives, slowly rolling into a tight spiral as he descends.

The deafening roar of the wind in your ears, the breathtaking rush of a steep dive, the rushing of adrenaline as arrows – thankfully the ballistas cannot be aimed so high – alike reach up to meet you, invisible hands trying to snare you in their deadly grasp. Your Dragon, your closest companion in the world, is steady beneath you, a place of calm in the midst of the storm, the finest companion you have in the world. His glorious wings of flashing gold, more than thrice your own height in breadth, are closely furled, hastening your descent, driving you ever faster as you approach your target, an old-age tower in the wide green valley beneath you, its four proud crenellated turrets lined with terrified archers and deadly siege weapons.

Your precious companion, Tryggr, carries death within his belly, Dragonfire ready to burn those who would dare try their strength against his own. Arrows _hiss_ upwards to meet him – missing – as he spirals down, your hand a calming and familiar presence upon the smooth scales of his neck as your companion spins downward, evading the deadly hail rising from below. As you get closer, however, it gets harder, the rain becoming thicker and harder to dodge as you approach, the archers recovering from the initial terror of seeing a Dragon on the rampage, sun shining like fire upon his wings and back, but you and your companion are undaunted, a roar of defiance erupting from Tryggr's mouth as he agrees with your unspoken thought. The roar echoes through the valley, giving the enemy pause as the primal thunder reaches their ears, a thousand trumpets cracking the air. In their moment of hesitation, you gain precious ground, entering within the range of your friend's devastating weaponry.

His mouth gapes wide, a cavern lined with great spikes as long as your forearm, the Dragon vomits flame, a veritable eruption of bright and blazing yellow fire blasting outward as he slows as to not invite disaster by touching his own fire. The torch arcs outward, chaos running rampant in the battlements as warriors abandon their posts, fear taking hold of their senses as the arcane flames shoot toward them, racing faster than any arrow. They do not have enough time to clear the battlements and their turret is blasted by the magical fire, a stream of balefire splattering across stone, vaporizing roughly hewn stone along with flesh and bone, screams of pain cut short as lives as snuffed out as if a candle before a great wind before the gout of flame comes to an abrupt end. The tower is left charred and melted from the assault, a pinnacle of stone coated with dusty ash and rough slag as the molten stone freezes the moment the arcane fire dies away.

However, the other warriors have not been idle as their comrades, now naught but memories and ghosts, melted away. Archers gather en masse upon the battlements, bringing their bows to bear on the raging beast even as he rains destruction down upon their comrades. Though they wavered when flame first erupted from his gaping jaw, their resolve now stiffens and they now return the favor, loosing a flood of arrows upon their tormentor, sending death into the sky to meet their diving foe.

Some of the deadly darts skip off of the Dragon's hard scales, harmlessly deflected, but others find chinks in his natural armor. They dig into his fine golden armor and draw forth his fey blood, a thick black fluid that stains Tryggr's bright scales as it is ejected from the wound. He roars from pain and anger, a terrible sound that reverberates about the valley, but the defenders are not daunted by the sound, pausing only at the sight of their own death – the bright orange flames dancing in the back of his throat, looking like a sun in the middle of the ominous shadow of midnight.

You glance to each side, noting the arrows that found their mark in your companion's delicate wings, iron arrowheads burrowed into the thick but unarmored skin ridged here and there by hollowed bone, strong, light, and sheathed in lean muscle. Sorrow for your trusted friend engulfs you, and your blood rises hotly in response. You know the ones responsible for his pain, and you scream your bloodlust to the winds as Tryggr does what you cannot – a gout of flame blasting from his mouth to soak the offending tower in maelstrom of balefire, a Dragon's vengeance wreaked upon those who would dare do him wrong.

Arrows vanish in the blink of an eye: smooth wood, cut feathers, dried glue, and iron head vaporizing instantly as the arcane fire passes near them, cutting a swath through the messengers of death and pain as they reach for the heavens. The golden fire burns brightly and white hot, painful to gaze upon and unbearable to touch, as it falls upon the tower full of archers – stone, flesh and bone alike vanishing and melting as the flame comes upon them – who would dare defy his might.

However, this torrent is cut short as Tryggr spreads his wings wide, roaring in pain as wind breathes fresh life into his wounds, and halts his descent a mere wingspan above the two remaining towers, their battlements almost empty out of terror. No sword forged nor mortal man can constrain those caught in the grasp of terror, minds held captive by the horrific and nigh instant deaths of dozens of their comrades. To run is their first instinct, and run they do, dropping bow and arrow to flee the doomed tower, a place that they know to be their future grave. Only a single soldier remains, quivering in nervous terror as he shakily aims the sole weapon capable of calling fear to your heart – a ballista aimed straight for Tryggr's heart.

You call desperately to your soulfriend as he alights upon the ash-encrusted stone of a melted tower and edges close to the now-ruined staircase to allow you to dismount. His head jerks around in a quick circle, looking up swiftly to see death before him, its iron head is a menacing specter as the bolt comes to bear upon his breast. The archer stands by, swallowing as he contemplates the magnificent creature before him, blazing in all of his golden glory, blood red sky outlining the great Dragon as the setting sun reflects off of his bright armor. A cold resolves takes the man, his hand rising and falling swiftly, the bolt flying from the siege weapon's maw.

Time seems to slow down, pausing itself to watch the drama enacted beneath the blood-red evening sky. His fire not yet replenished, Tryggr's claws shoot out, his foreleg reaching for his foe in slow motion, the bolt still flying toward him with horrendous speed. The spear impales him, sinking deeply into his chest as a bloodcurdling cry rips from his throat, shaking your bones as your heart leaps out to your friend and tears jump unbidden to your eyes. You slide off of his back, landing behind him in a crouch with a heavy crossbow half drawn from your back, your only thought to take swift vengeance upon the one who has injured your beloved so even as he slumps forward, life draining from his wound as black blood drips upon the ground, scorching the stone as the vital fluid falls from his grisly wound, the Dragon kept alive only by dint of the spear stemming the outward gush of his lifeblood.

A few hurried steps – taken as if in a dream, your feet numb to the ground, only your eyes alert, searching incessantly for your singular foe – take you around his relaxed wings and into sight of the archer who dared strike at your dearest companion. Pure terror fills him as your eyes meet, flaming hot rage meeting with icy fear. Your arm rises with its deadly weapon by reflex, sighting instantly upon him and loosing the bolt upon the readied bow in a single movement. The quarrel _hisses_ the air the separates him from you in less than a heartbeat – many heartbeats more than your quarry deserves to live – and smites him mightily.

He staggers backward from the blow, the bolt lodged deep within his heart, and collapses against the cold stone battlements with an echoing ring as his steel helm falls to the stone, but you do not wait to see him fall. Instead, you turn away the moment you loose the bolt to tend to your beloved companion, rushing to his side. Your one hand automatically straps the crossbow to your back as you speak anxiously, your voice emerging as hasty and choppy phrases as you try to assure yourself that he is still among the living.

A great eye regards you as his head sinks lower and lower to the stone, life stretching its wings in preparation to fly forth as a rumbling whisper sounds in your ears: "_Go thou…I cannot follow, but remember – I shall be with you…always._" Blood pounds in your ears and unfelt tears coursing like a river down your face, you rest one hand upon the rapidly cooling scales of his forehead, head bowed in grief, your soul weeping at his loss, your mind screaming of the danger that lies in being still, calling you to action, but your heart is loath to leave your dear friend in his final few heartbeats.

"_Go…_" The word is barely audible, half-strangled by the time it reaches your ears, Tryggr's rumbling voice reduced to but an insignificant shadow of its former self. You nod in unconscious agreement, the silver of your brain that is still reasonable forcing your body away from your companion as he bids you to leave him and complete your task – a doom set upon you both to save a fellow Rider who is trapped within the castle. Escape will be tricky…your retreat is not proven, but you press on regardless – the Rider who you go to save, as with Tryggr, is more important to you than your own life.

You run, feet slapping the cooling sod – dried and cracked from its proximity to the blazing Dragonfire – as you dash towards the entrance to the keep – you know where the dungeon will be, having entered these gates not two moons ago under the mantel of friendship and having had the run of the castle, respect as it should be accorded to a Rider. The lord of this castle has now violated that ancient trust and taken a Rider prisoner and slain his Dragon.

You dash quickly through the archway, curved saber flashing from its scabbard as you pass under its cold stone buttress. It appears that most of the castle's men-at-arms were called to the battlements to fight off your approach – weapons customarily hanging from the walls as a sign of peace during mealtimes now missing with evidence of haste in their departure leaving the hall strewn with still-warm food from the table and red coals glowing upon the hearth, blown outward from the swift passage of many warriors. You smile in relief, but dare not to tarry for more than a heartbeat – the warriors who left the keep undefended will undoubtedly be returning, and there is no one behind you to stave off their approach. You are alone, but the thought barely has time to register in your mind, gripped as it is by battle-rage and anger at the death of your true friend.

The way downward is where you have been told the dungeons will be, and the downward stair is obvious, a dark passageway set back from the Great Hall and half-concealed by a hanging tapestry. You run hastily towards it, knowing that there are few warriors – if any – between you and your goal, your saber leading the way.

You dash swiftly down the dark stairwell, your way lit by the occasional torch's flicking flare. As you approach the bottom a cry to hold greets your ears, and is ignored as you leap forward and literally dive for your foe, your blade parrying his to the side, carrying your sword's edge too far away to return on the attack, but it puts your pommel in just the right place.

With a sickeningly wet _thud_, the steel meets flesh as your sword punches into the guard's face, pushing his nose back at an unnatural angle with a nasty _po-CRACK_. He lies on the cold stone of the floor, motionless, as you crash on top of him, unable to recover from your desperate lunge in time. You scramble quickly to your feet, breathing quickly as you throw your sword-tip back to the man's neck only to find that he is, in fact, dead, his chest motionless and his eyes paralyzed in the grip of death.

Glancing upward, you see the dark-haired Rider that you were sent to find with a wry grin on her face, happy at your coming. You wipe your saber's hilt on the jailer's tunic, sheathing it quickly to fish the keys from his well-laden belt and his broadsword from where it had clattered to the floor. There is only one key on the ring, and you unlock and unbolt her cell in a trice, throwing aside the grate and passing her the broadsword, hiltfirst, before glancing over your shoulder to check for pursuit as you unsheathe your saber again. She speaks quickly and lightly, tension clear in her voice as she moves towards the stairs at a run, "Thou art late!" Shaking your head in amusement, you follow after, saber at the ready.

You make it to the top of the stairs quickly, daylight appearing through the waving tapestry as your fellow Rider pushes it aside. You both run to the end of the hall before she peeks around the corner, attempting to divine what lays outside the door before being driven back by a pair of longbow shafts clacking off of the stone where her head had lain but a heartbeat before. Turning her head to you and brushing aside an imaginary strand of her close-cropped hair, she speaks again, "Where ist thy Dragon? We must fly from here!" You choke on your reply, hesitating for a heartbeat before reply, terror and rage dancing before you in her cold eyes, "He was slain…an archer took his life." She stands between sorrow and rage, hovering between two extremes as the devastating news takes her.

Pressing her lips in a thin line as she glances down the hall again, she looks for another way out…and finds none save the doors. The hall was not built to be a defensive bastion, but merely the inner sanctum of an unchallenged fortress that could already defeat any that would come to meet it – mere groups of roving bandits or highwaymen intent on pillaging the countryside and laying waste about them if their demands were not met. However, for two Riders who now sought a way out of it, the castle had become an effective prison. Dodging swiftly across the opening – arrows _clicking_ off of the stones as you run – you gain the opposite side of the gateway and slam the great door shut, stout things crafted from fine oak. The latch is thrown and you both run to them, putting your shoulders to the wood as you hold them closed to a veritable rain of death, arrows pouring upon the wood, the archers' final attempts to slide a shaft into the hastily closing doorway.

You can hear hobnails clacking on stone and tearing nosily upon the sod as men-at-arms come down from the battlements to engage you and your companion. You know that there are still many opponents to face with your two blades, and ought else besides. The heavy crossbow upon back has no quarrel upon it, and it would take too long to reload it for but a single shot. The tables are too heavy to move and thus create a barricade, and the doors will only last for a little while.

You glance at your fellow Rider, realizing that the end is near, and all that is left is to decide how many shall pave the road before you on the way to Asgard. The price shall be heavy to dislodge you both from this place, and the road shall be thick with the corpses of your foes. The telltale _click-clack_ of hobnails on stone sounds again, much closer and quicker than before as the men-at-arms run into the archway and attempt to force the door open, the wood jolting under their heavy bodies, jarring you both as you attempt to help the door fast against them.

The pounding is relentless, merciless, and endless, a crack beginning to sprout in the wood as it begins to yield to the incessant attack. You are about to yield the entrance and take those behind it by a sudden surprise attack when a deafening roar brings joy to your heart. The muffled crash of Dragonflame blasting upon its unlucky targets echoes through the stone, accompanied by the unbridled and bone-shaking roar of a Dragon in rage and then all sounds suddenly cease, a deathly quiet enveloping you.

You relax, thinking the danger to be over, when the door suddenly opens inward with a _crunch_ of tortured wood, the bar hanging awkwardly to the side as a broadsword appears from no where, slashing in a downward arc. You disengage around it, stabbing down upon its owner without a glance to guide the blade's passage, your steel sliding easily into the other's chest despite this. You withdraw the saber quickly, hastening to bring it back onto guard against another foe, only to find that your prey was already dead, his back revealed as charred ash as he falls forward to the stone. Your salvation has arrived, a Rider and his glorious green Dragon, come to bear you both away into the setting sun.


End file.
